


old growth forests

by Chrome



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Caleb Widogast Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Cauterization, Hurt Caduceus Clay, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Is it possible to write a Caleb fic without an angst tag?, Metaphors, Misuse of Fireball, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21715636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrome/pseuds/Chrome
Summary: “Sometimes things have to burn in order to live,” Caduceus says, very quietly.
Relationships: Caduceus Clay & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 37
Kudos: 285





	old growth forests

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stardreamertwo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardreamertwo/gifts).



> Star prompted "Caduceus & Caleb, cauterization and/or fever," and this fic practically wrote itself.
> 
> No spoilers here, R & C.
> 
> Thank you to [Theatricuddles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Theatricuddles) for taking a look.

“Let me tell you,” Caduceus says, slow and steady, “About forests.” He is probably not any paler than usual despite Caleb’s imagination; Caleb isn’t even certain he  _ could _ see a change in complexion beneath the short grey fur. “The sort with—what’s the word. With pine cones and needles. Evergreen.”

“Coniferous,” suggests Caleb, woodenly. He digs his fingers in deeper, ignoring the way his stomach flips at the feeling of slick wetness.

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s it,” Caduceus agrees. “Coniferous.” He says the word like he’s feeling it out, like all the consonants are corners that he has to get his mouth around. It takes him another moment after to regain his train of thought. “Well, every dozen seasons or so, a big fire comes through them. It burns up everything on the ground, all those dry needles, and then it takes the trees. Not all of them, but sometimes quite a few. They’re dry too in those seasons, especially the ones with a lot of—what do you call it, old growth. So they go right up. When it’s all over a lot of them are gone. Big gaps in between. I’ll tell you, Mr. Caleb, it doesn’t look good, all burnt out like that.”

“Right,” Caleb says. He tries to steel himself and can’t. The fingers of his right hand can’t get a grip and slide pointlessly over the wet fur. His other hand is in his pocket, grasping at his components but he can’t bring himself to do it, to lift his hand and cast. “I’m sorry—Mr. Clay—Caduceus, I can’t—“

"Here’s the other thing,” Caduceus says, continuing smoothly over him as though Caleb hasn’t spoken. “When all the dead things are gone, there’s lots of new. When the fire comes through, it opens all those cones right up and the seeds come out. And they’ve got lots of space to grow with all those big old trees gone. And come spring the snow melts, and all the green comes back. And it starts all over again.”

Caleb stares at him, then back at the wound that he’s failing to put adequate pressure on, the wound stretching wide across Caduceus’ stomach, the wound that is surely killing him even as he looks at Caleb and smiles. Caleb can’t even pinpoint the moment he got it, when one of the snarling beasts got close enough to sink a claw into him. He didn’t see it until afterwards when Caduceus gasped and bent double.

He’d tried to Message for Jester, first thing. Caleb isn’t a fool. He knows the sort of work he’s cut out for. But they must still be too far behind, because she didn’t answer. And Caleb is no healer and Caduceus has no spells left and Caduceus is still talking, calm and steady, apparently unaffected by Caleb’s fear.

“The thing about those forests is that sometimes a fire doesn’t come through and the forest can’t keep growing. The old trees, they take up too much space, and the forest chokes itself to death. No new life. There’s no room for it.” Caduceus reaches out a hand and for the first time Caleb sees a crack in his composure—his hand is shaking. He lays it over the top of Caleb’s and then Caleb can feel the tremor, coursing through his whole body.

“It’s going to hurt,” Caleb says, faintly, thumb settling against the lump of sulfur in his pocket. “I don’t want to—hurt you.”

“Sometimes things have to burn in order to live,” Caduceus says, very quietly. “And I trust you.”

Caleb closes his eyes for a second and then opens them to look at the wound instead of into Caduceus’ eyes. His hand lifts from his pocket, mashing stone and guano together and making a sharp gesture. The words get murmured under his breath and his fingers spread out over the horrible wound and the flames lick across them.

Caleb grits his teeth. The smell makes him want to gag, want to scream. Caduceus, amazingly, makes no sound, but Caleb can feel him shaking.

He forces himself to do the job right. He holds the fire until the flesh turns angry red, the fur black, the damp of blood dried out by the heat as the wound seals itself. It’s going to be an ugly, ugly scar. When it’s done and the fire fades, it takes him a moment to get a hold on himself. The memories threaten him but he forces them away, swallows down the bile rising in his throat.

Caleb can’t afford to get lost in the past now. He has to stay here in this moment. Caduceus needs him, at least until the rest of the Nein come to find them. It’s a sad day when Caleb is the most physically able person around, but his wounds are minor, the worst of them wiped away with Caduceus’ magic. And he at least still has a little magic left.

Caduceus lets out a quiet little sigh. Caleb tears his eyes from the wound to look at his face. His cheeks are damp; given the lack of sound, he must have been crying silently as Caleb burned him.

“Saved me,” Caduceus corrects, and Caleb realizes he must have said some part of that out loud. “Thank you. I know that was very hard for you.”

“Sorry,” Caleb says, not sure which he’s apologizing for, the difficulty or the doing, cauterizing the wound or almost failing to.

“Don’t ever be sorry for doing something kind,” Caduceus replies.

Is this kindness? Caleb isn’t sure. Caduceus is drained of spells, surely in terrible pain, forced to ask a wizard to use a spell made to hurt and destroy on him because Caleb has no magic meant to heal, and then to comfort that wizard as though he was the one suffering. It didn’t feel like a kindness, the flames licking up his palm, the way the rent flesh warped beneath it.

Caleb starts to shift away, feeling trapped under Caduceus’ steady, knowing gaze. People have compared Caduceus to a cow before but Caleb doesn’t see it. He was a farm boy and he’s seen cow eyes before, wide and dark and trusting and empty. Caduceus’ eyes are far too sharp to be bovine.

An involuntary sound escapes from Caduceus, finally, low in his throat. Caleb starts a little. “Are you—does something hurt?” A stupid question; the fact that Caduceus is no longer bleeding out does not negate his wounds and Caleb knows from experience burns are agony. “What can I do?”

Caduceus seems to weigh his words for a moment and then says them anyway. “Would you—if you wouldn’t mind staying close.”

Caleb’s mouth opens and shuts. Wordlessly, he repositions them so that his arm is around Caduceus’s back, pressing up against his uninjured side. Caduceus is warm but still trembling. It keeps Caleb awake, hyperaware, but he wouldn’t have slept anyway, so he can hardly begrudge the cleric for it.

“A kindness,” Caduceus repeats, and Caleb settles there with his cheek against the gauzy fabric of Caduceus’ long sleeve, staring out into the wood until the others come, together a burned-out forest waiting for spring.

**Author's Note:**

> If you can, please leave a comment--they mean a lot.
> 
> I'm [catalists](http://catalists.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr or [@chromecatalists](https://twitter.com/chromecatalists/) on Twitter. Come say hi!


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